F64

What it's about

They said a machine made it, so it can't be mine. I said cool. Who fed it, and who wrote the line? Who sat there at ten past four with a kid on his chest, typing with one thumb because the other arm's pressed?

I never had a studio. I had a landing and a stairwell, and a phone on eight percent still recording, still standing. They want an origin with a scar they can point at. Mine's a school run and a letter I never sent.

The machine can hold a pen. It can't hold a room. Can't hold a daughter. Can't hold a wound.

Every bar in here I lived before I typed it. You can copy the method. You can't copy the life.

How it was made

Every frame is built, not filmed. Shot around one booth, cut to the bar against the vocal, with the words and the imagery coming up on screen the way a freestyle should carry them.

That's the argument the record is making. Not that a machine can write That a person can direct one.